King’s (The King Trilogy #1)(10)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Whoever King was, he was well connected.

And dangerous.

Yes. And now you’re his assistant?

~ ~ ~

Proving once more that I’d misjudged King and the seedy depths of his malevolence, I spent the next three weeks sitting alone in that cold, creepy office, watching the clock tick away on my brother’s life. Each evening at six o’clock, King would show up, go into his office, and then call to dismiss me. A twisted and bizarre little ritual. And each evening I promised myself I would confront him, only to find myself paralyzed. The ominous man’s presence did something to me that I couldn’t begin to articulate. It was a sickly sensation combined with a powerful urge to gawk. On the exterior, he was unsettlingly beautiful, and on the inside, he was wicked. But nevertheless, he was still just a man. So why did I fall apart in his presence?

If I weren’t so desperate and so absolutely convinced that this man, King, could do what he said—hunt down Justin or punish me if I “displeased him”—I wouldn’t have kept coming back. But I had, occupying myself by making inquiries with officials in Mexico. Zero luck. I had even made a list and called every person who’d ever been in contact with Justin, but it was like he’d disappeared off the face of the planet.

So why hadn’t King started looking? At least, that’s what I assumed. He hadn’t given me reason to believe otherwise. Instead, he made me sit in that office. Why? Did he want to see how far he could push me?

Of course. The man was not only cruel, he was sadistic. A statement I felt with severe conviction when days earlier, I secretly moved my belongings into storage and set up camp in a cheap motel. And knowing without a paying job I couldn’t afford even that, I stooped to calling Becca with some BS story about how just as soon as I was back in S.F. from my fake trip in a few days, I’d need to crash at her place for a while due to a nonexistent mold problem.

With everything else going on, lying to her was a new low point in my life, only surpassed by the moment when I called my boss to resign from my dream job.

I kept telling myself, over and over again, that I had to do this for Justin. That his life was more valuable than any job or apartment, but that didn’t mean losing them felt good.

Then, just when I’d been pushed that last inch, ready to unleash a fury, King called. “It is time, Miss Turner,” he’d said.

“King?”

“No. It’s your f**king fairy godmother, Miss Turner. And your wish has been granted.”

I had been speechless. He gave no explanation as to why it was time. He gave no destination details until I got to the airport, passport in hand.

And now, as I stood in line after a five-hour flight, waiting to pass Immigration at the Mexico City airport and head to my connecting flight, I fended off those dark thoughts telling me that this trip would be the death of me. I should never have lied to my mother and father, who believed I was still in Mexico and due home at any moment. Yes, they had actually believed the story I fed them about Justin and I having some major vacay time coming and that we would be in Cancun before visiting all of the Yucatan ruins. “No cell phone access for a few weeks,” I’d said. Such a stupid lie. Cell phones were just about everywhere in the world these days. And who took vacations longer than a week or two? Not many. But they’d bought it, allowing me to hide the truth. For a while, anyway.

“Mia Turner?”

Bag slung over my shoulder, passport in hand, I lifted my troubled gaze from the floor. A cold stare from a Mexican official in a dark green uniform greeted me. Two soldiers with rifles stood behind him. All three men were about my height—five-six—but what they lacked in stature, they made up for in deadly weapons.

My stomach fell into a tailspin. “Yes?”

The room of queued-up passengers turned to stare. Anyone within twenty feet stepped away.

“Come with us, please,” said the official.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. My heart thumped wildly inside my chest.

“We warned you not to return,” he whispered.

Shit.

~ ~ ~

Those terrifying men that night in the hotel room four weeks earlier had left no doubt in my mind that they’d meant what they’d said. They would kill me if I returned looking for Justin. But I’d mistakenly believed the incident was connected to a well-organized group of lowlife narcos who’d taken my brother. I thought, perhaps, they’d been watching me. Maybe watching my entire family, trying to figure out how much we were worth before they issued a ransom. But now, this second time through, I knew differently. I had been detained before officially entering the country.

What the hell was Justin involved with? And why the hell hadn’t I told King about my prior trip to Mexico City? I suppose I never had the chance, but not telling him felt like a mistake. A big, big mistake.

One of the soldiers handcuffed me in front of the onlookers from my flight. The three men then walked me down a long, narrow passage and led me inside a small room with dirty, blue walls. No mirrors, no table or chairs, just a room with a door. The soles of my brown suede boots stuck to the grimy floor. I hoped it wasn’t dried blood.

“Why am I here?” I tugged at the hem of my white turtleneck, not knowing what else to say, but the men kept to their task of stripping me of my watch, cell phone, and other personal belongings, including my passport. Then they left without a word.

“Crap.” I paced the length of the room for several hours. No bathroom, no water, no answers as to what would happen next. My imagination had a field day.

When the door finally swung open, I stilled. The man wore a cheap, gray suit and even cheaper cologne. His deep pockmarks and greasy smile screamed criminal. I placed my back to the wall furthest from the door.

“Señorita Turner,” he said. Why is his voice familiar? “I am Inspector Guzman of the Agencia Federal de Investigaciones.”

I remained as still as my weak knees allowed.

He glanced at someone in the hallway and flicked his fingers. In walked a soldier with a chair. He placed it down directly in front of me, and Agent Guzman sat with his legs wide open.

Nice view. Thanks.

He smiled and flashed a set of gold-capped teeth. “Do you know why you are here?” he asked with a thick accent.

“No.” I shoved my hand into my jeans pocket, wishing my cell phone was there so I could call for help.

He slipped a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He sucked hard, savoring the long puff, and blew it toward the ceiling.